


number me with rage

by TheResurrectionist



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bombing, Bruce Wayne is Batman, But he doesn't know that, Gen, Memory Loss, Minor Injuries, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 10:35:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13739052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheResurrectionist/pseuds/TheResurrectionist
Summary: Bruce Wayne forgets what he was.





	number me with rage

**Author's Note:**

> Whew. I think I got a little carried away. Anyway, as usual, I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Thanks to batwayneman, also as usual, for letting me yell about this.

Alfred’s face is the first thing he sees.

The butler’s expression is grave. Bruce reaches out a hand to reassure him, blinking at the bright lights. There is a heavy sensation at the back of his head. He can feel his pulse, thudding dully against the base of his skull.

“Alfred…”

“Don’t move.” the butler says, putting a hand to his chest. Bruce settles back against the pillows, confused. “We don’t have much time until the doctors come back. I told them you were mugged. I found you in the alley and drove you to the hospital. Everything else is in the trunk.”

“What?” Bruce asks, blinking again. The room spins, overlaid in a sickly red color. “Alfred, you’re not making any sense.”

“You were shot. Zsasz caught you on patrol, you were--” Alfred cuts himself off, his face twisting. His hand grips the bedrail, tightening. “You don’t remember?”

“Remember what?” Bruce asks. The heart rate monitor to his left begins to beep, registering his heightened pulse. “The last thing I remember is…”

What _was_ it? He squints, struggling to pull his thoughts together. Something to do with Lucius Fox…

“I was at a meeting. With Lucius.” He frowns, frustrated when the memories don’t come quickly. “There was an….investing firm. Japanese, I think. He wanted me to meet with them…at the Ritz, I think?”

He trails off. Alfred’s face is a startling white, absolutely crushed.

“You’re frightening me, Alfred,” Bruce jokes, forcing a smile. The butler is still frozen next to the bed. “What am I missing, huh? This is a trick, right? Joe put you up to this?”

“I’ll--” Alfred pushes the chair back, his hands trembling. He stumbles on the way to the door, righting himself against the bed frame before he can fall. His face is still pale, devoid of all color. “I’ll just go get the doctor.”

The door slams behind him. Bruce shifts in the bed, unsettled. He clenches his fists, ignoring the pounding pain in his skull. There’s an unfamiliar strain in the motion, drawing him short. He looks down, his breath catching.

Across his hands are dozens of scars--some pink and shiny, some the hardened white of long-healed wounds. They crisscross up his arms, disappearing into his sleeves.

He shoves his hands under the bedsheets, pretending he hadn’t seen them.

 _I’ll tell Alfred they don’t need to bother with the morphine next time,_ he thinks, and then he’s asleep again.

* * *

 “Retrograde amnesia,” Bruce repeats.

The doctor--a forty-five year old, no-nonsense woman in severe white--nods. She adjusts the clipboard in her hands. “A sudden, traumatic injury to the brain can be unpredictable. Your butler informs me you have no memories of the past five years.”

He sits in silence as the doctor continues, Alfred asking questions intermittently. _Five years_ , he thinks, over and over again, until the two words are burned into his useless brain.

_Five years._

He half-listens as they describe the symptoms, the chance for recovery, and the rehabilitation programs. He has enough sense left to know the temporal grade for a gunshot to the head is nothing like a quick bump on the pavement. What was the word the doctor had used earlier?

 _Traumatic,_ he thinks, celebrating a small victory in being able to recall the word. _A sudden, traumatic injury._

“--won’t be discussing this with the press,” Alfred is saying above him, a sheaf of papers in his hands. He passes them to the doctor. “Now, if you could initial at the bottom of the page, and then a signature over--”

Bruce blinks, and the meeting is done. He’s in the back of a Rolls-Royce, wincing with every bump. His head is throbbing, pain pulsing through his skull until he can barely stand the pressure. He puts a hand to each temple, resisting the urge to squeeze.

“Master Wayne--” Alfred says, eyeing him in the rearview mirror.

Bruce gasps as the pain turns into light, flashing in front of his eyes. In the distance, he hears a gunshot.

His head hits the leather seat, sending sparks through his brain. The car swerves beneath him.

“ _Bruce!”_ he hears, and then--nothing.

* * *

 He wakes to a dull pain in his skull and the taste of blood in his mouth.

The master bedroom hasn’t changed much since he last saw it. There are a few differences--the curtains, a small photo near the en suite. Even with the small changes, it is still _theirs_ \--still a room he wouldn’t enter, much less sleep in.

He must sleep here now-- _he,_ Bruce, Bruce Wayne, whoever that man is. There are clothes in the corner that look to be his size. With some effort, he stumbles out of bed, his mind fuzzy with what must be heavy painkillers.

He grabs a t-shirt and sweatpants, slipping into the en suite bathroom. The blood rushes from his head as he stares in the mirror, frozen.

There are scars and cuts and bruises across every inch of his skin. His bare chest is covered in puckered scars, twisting across his abs to his back. There are bruises along his ribs, a dark purple he knows must hurt. A line of neat stitches by his shoulder, still fresh--done less than a week ago, if he had to guess.

His head begins to grow heavy. He fights a wave of dizziness, putting on the clothes before he faints, a hand wedged against the sink. He grabs a robe from the hook, padding into the hallway.

The carpet is soft against his feet, a familiar sensation he had no idea he’d missed. He takes his time on the stairs, holding onto the banister to balance himself. In the kitchen, there is the muted sound of voices. He heads towards the noise, curious.

“--doesn’t remember _anything_?" an unfamiliar voice says, sounding distressed. There is the sound of something creaking, and then a pained sigh. “Alfred, I--I don’t even know what to say.”

“The doctors say it might not be permanent.”

“ _Might_?” There’s another exhale. The unknown man is quiet for a few minutes, and then, softly: “Does he remember Dick?”

“Nothing, from the past five years.” Alfred’s voice is like iron, but Bruce knows him well enough to hear the tiniest tremble in it. “There are--there are contingencies he had, if something like this were to happen--”

“I don’t want to hear them,” the man says fiercely. “He’ll get better, Alfred. He _has_ to.”

There’s another pause.

“Very well.” Alfred says, but there’s little enthusiasm in the words. Bruce coughs, shuffling his feet to announce his entrance into the kitchen.

The two leap apart at the sound. Alfred is seated at the breakfast bar; across from him is a taller man with black hair. He stares at Bruce behind large glasses, visibly unnerved by his entrance.

“Who are you?” Bruce says, casually. He turns to Alfred, quirking a brow. “A friend of yours?”

The man’s face falls, reverting to the same expression as Alfred’s in the hospital. Crushing disappointment. A tiny bit of fear.

“I’m nobody.” the man says, grabbing a leather satchel from the floor. He straightens to his full height, something dark in his eyes. It’s at complete odds with his persona--plaid, wrinkled, intellectual--and the change is shocking. He nods at Alfred. “I’ll call you.”

The butler inclines his head. The man disappears from the kitchen without a word. Bruce grabs a coffee mug, struggling to put a name to the feeling in his chest. Instead of bothering, he ignores it, waving away uncertainty with the smell of Colombian dark roast.

“Who was he?” he asks Alfred, finally, when the urge to throw the coffee mug subsides enough. He stirs in sugar, wondering if his coffee habits had changed in the past year. By the butler’s expression, they probably had.

“A friend.” Alfred says, in a tone that doesn’t beg conversation. He stands, heading for the stove. “Now. Let’s get started on breakfast, hm?”

Bruce sits at the table, a bitter taste in his mouth. He chases it away with a sip of blistering coffee, forcing a smile onto his face.

“Eggs would be great.”

* * *

 He doesn’t ask Alfred anything else that morning. It’s clearly too painful for the butler. Bruce can see the way his jaw locks up, the way the man’s fists clench, unseen, at his sides, when the topic veers too close to _before._

He’s smart enough. He can piece together five years well enough on his own--or get started, at the very least.

There are pictures in the front hall, old frames he’d stared at as a child. Heavy brass frames with dusty photos in them. He passes by them, trailing a hand between the marriage portraits of his parents.

The newer photos are scattered across the far end of the west wall. There are some of him and Alfred--more like portraits than candid photos, but they’re still smiling in them. There are a few photos of him at what must be charity events, dressed in tuxedos.

He comes to a series of newer frames, his fingers trailing between them, pressed against the wooden inlay. A younger boy smiles under his arm, making a peace sign at the camera. Bruce’s breath catches.

A second frame; they’re both smiling this time, dressed in Gotham jerseys. The boy has popcorn in one hand. Bruce bites his tongue.

The third; A graduation of some sort. The boy is slightly older now, wearing a bright blue gown. Middle school, maybe? Bruce is behind him, a proud hand on his shoulder. They’re smiling.

Something swells up inside him. He puts the mug of coffee down on a nearby table, exceedingly careful. He closes his eyes, breathing in slowly. He has a son. A son he doesn’t remember.

 _Does he remember Dick?_ The man from the kitchen had asked, sounding worried. As if not remembering him would be the worst of all, for some reason. He hadn’t understood then. But now…

His eyes open. He grabs the coffee mug and hurls it across the room, screaming his rage into one unending syllable that echoes through the house.

Alfred comes running. Bruce curls under the photo frames, his head in his hands. Guilt surges through him, but it is nothing compared to the rage he feels, dug deep into his bones.

“Shhh,” Alfred says, brushing his hands away, before they can tear at the bandages at his skull. “Shhh. Master Bruce. It’s alright, it’s _alright--_ ”

He allows himself to be led, numb, to the master bedroom. Takes the pain pills Alfred gives him and lets himself be tucked into bed like a child. Closes his eyes and feels them burn, despite all efforts otherwise.

* * *

 He meets _Dick_ that night at dinner. The boy is around thirteen, halfway into a painful growth spurt Bruce feels distant empathy for. Alfred must have warned him ahead of time, because Dick introduces himself carefully. He has a brilliant smile. Bruce finds his lips quirking in response.

“I’m Bruce,” he says, somewhat redundantly. Dick takes this in stride, sitting to his left. “Were you at school today?”

“I was.” Dick replies, stabbing at a cherry tomato with his fork. “We had a field trip today. It was very cool.”

“Tell me about it?”

The fork pauses in mid air. Dick freezes for just a moment, his gaze flicking to Alfred.

“...sure,” he says, turning that blinding grin on Bruce again. He seems genuinely pleased. “We went to a ranch. There were horses we could ride, except they were _really_ big--”

He listens as Dick describes ever detail of the ranch, barely tasting the food in his mouth. The boy chatters on for almost an hour, clearly used to the sound of his own voice. Bruce finds himself riveted, laughing along with Dick’s story about mucking rooms and unwilling ponies.

At the end of dinner, he turns to Alfred, an idea itching at his mind.

“We haven’t had horses for years, have we?”

The butler shakes his head. “No sir, I don’t think we have.”

“That’s a shame. What do you do around here for fun?” Bruce smiles, turning to Dick. But the boy is stock-still, his face blank where Bruce would’ve expected eagerness. “Read?” he asks, fumbling for an answer to the sudden silence.

“Something like that.” Alfred says, pointedly. He looks at Dick, who ducks his head. “Who’s ready for dessert?”

“Me!”

* * *

 Dick leaves for school at an early hour. Bruce is already awake, fighting the remnants of strange, hazy dreams. He sees the boy off from the kitchen, a mug of coffee clutched in his hands like a lifeline.

The morning paper is on the doorstep by seven. He takes it inside, gratified to see some things hadn’t changed. He spreads the _Gazette_ across the kitchen table, scanning the pages for something notable.

_Serial Killer strikes again, killing two in Narrows; more on page A2. Three dead in gang violence on East side; Commissioner Gordon reiterates need for comprehensive task force in press conference; C5. Mayor resigns after sting operation reveals inappropriate conduct; D7. Batman not spotted for weeks; GPD statement on E4._

Bruce frowns, turning the front page over. He hears Alfred come in behind him, not bothering to look up. He scans the columns, something building in his chest.

“Things have gotten worse.” he says to the butler, “Haven’t they?”

Alfred is frozen when he looks up, that same strange expression on his face. He looks tired, Bruce thinks, the lines under his eyes more prominent than ever.

“Yes, sir,” he finally says, grabbing the sugar from the shelf. He pours a teaspoon into his coffee, a fine tremble in his hand. The sugar spills a little over the rim, quickly wiped up by a napkin. “I suppose they have.”

* * *

 His stitches come out two weeks later. The doctor makes a house call, removing them with little fanfare. She examines the wound, nodding to herself. After a few moments, she pulls out a penlight.

“Follow this with your eyes, please.”

He does as she asks, breathing a sigh of relief as Alfred steps into the hallway. He grabs her wrist before she can move onto the next task, knowing his time is limited. “Doctor--”

“Leslie,” she says, strangely. “Mr. Wayne--”

“Bruce,” he says, staring at her. She nods, accepting the point. “Please, Leslie. I need to know how to fix this.”

Her eyes are sad, and he turns away before that expression-- _that_ expression--can do something to him. He doesn’t want her pity. He wants _answers._

“Brain damage isn’t predictable,” she says, painfully slow. “It isn’t something we have a magic ‘fix’ for. You’re lucky you can still talk.”

“Everyone in this house is walking on eggshells around me,” he begs, surprised by the fury he’s feeling. The desperation for someone to talk to him like he’s _real,_ and not some caricature. “Please, Leslie, there’s something they won’t tell me--”

She carefully removes his hand from her wrist, disengaging. With a sad smile, she packs up her bag.

“Call me in a few weeks. Keep an eye on that wound.” She ignores his stare, heading for the door. “I’ll see myself out.”

The door closes behind her with a certain kind of finality.

* * *

 Three weeks later, and he finds himself awake at three am. There’s a restless energy in his limbs he can’t banish. He’s tried everything--jogging, working out--to no avail. After rolling over in bed for the twelfth time, he gets up, frustrated.

The manor is silent. The floorboards creak slightly under his footsteps. He walks mindlessly through the halls, pacing through this manic energy, willing it to leave him. He’d never been angry as a child--never petulant or irritable. Now, he is nothing but anger, searching for a way to free himself of it.

He pauses in front of the grandfather clock on the first floor, halfway through the second loop around the manor. The clock ticks, the hand swinging back and forth with the pendulum. He tilts his head, listening.

For a second, there is a sliver of a memory that reaches him. He reaches out desperately for it, struggling to hold onto the sensation, the _feeling,_ but it is gone. As quickly as it’d came, the familiarity disappears. He stares at the wood of the clock, dazed.

 _I need this,_ he thinks, unable to decipher what the sensation means, what _any_ of it means. He stares at the clock, utterly confused.

When he looks up again, the sun is peeking through the kitchen windows, painting the floor in reds and oranges. He tears himself away from the clock, finally heading to bed.

* * *

 He dozes until mid-afternoon, finally leaving bed around three. Dick is at school until four-thirty, he recalls. Maybe, when he’s back, Bruce will ask him to play a board game.

 _If children still do that…_ he thinks, rubbing sleep from his eyes. _I should ask Alfred what game he likes to play._

There are voices downstairs. He straightens against the wall, listening carefully. This time, he doesn’t bother to enter the kitchen. He perches against the banister, leaning in to listen.

“--beginning to wonder. Things are getting restless. Last week, Diana had to step in three times.” It’s the man from before--the taller one with dark hair. “We can’t keep covering it up. They’re going to find out eventually.”

Alfred is quiet. He sips something--tea, maybe. “And Commissioner Gordon?”

“He’s frustrated. Crime has gone up. He doesn’t have enough hands as it is. Next week, the cartel is planning something big. He’s worried it won’t go well.”

The man takes a seat as Alfred processes this. Bruce takes a moment to examine the taller man, unobserved. There are lines of stress across his face, absent the last time he’d seen him. His shirt is even more wrinkled today, tucked haphazardly into cheap slacks.

The man removes his glasses, discarding them on the table as he rubs his face.

“I don’t know what to do,” he says, despondent. “We _need_ him, Alfred. I  can’t do this alone. I just can’t.”

There’s a brief glimmer of a memory, tucked into the urgency of the man’s voice. He feels _needed,_ briefly--important. Crucial, even.

(nothing like how he is now; useless, or worse than it)

“Have you--have you thought about showing it to him?” the man asks, after a period of silence. “Just showing it all to him at once. Trying to jog his memory.”

“Leslie seems to think it would do more harm than good.” Alfred sighs, something painful in the sound Bruce catches. “He’s growing frustrated. He knows something’s missing...but he can’t tell what it is. It’s driving him mad, I suspect.”

The man hisses between his teeth, displeased. “Of course he wouldn’t let brain damage stop his micromanaging.”

“Indeed.”

There is another silence, longer this time. Something burns in his chest. The rage suspiciously absent this time; there is nothing within him but a deep sadness. An aching crack through everything that he is and was.

He climbs back up the stairs, leaving the kitchen behind him.

* * *

 The next afternoon, a bomb goes off on the lower East side of Gotham.

He sees the aftermath on the news, just minutes after it happens. The TV is on in the kitchen as he walks in, in search of coffee. He freezes in place, watching grainy cell phone video of screaming, of blood and twisted metal across the street.

There is a small girl in the rubble, face-down and not moving. He feels bile rise in his throat as the camera zooms in, unable to look away.

 _It’s going to be okay,_ he imagines himself telling her.

(he would grasp her pink dress, pulling her away from the rubble, not letting her look at the bodies)

_It’s going to be okay. Where are your parents? I can take you to them. Just point, sweetheart. Just point..._

He opens his eyes, not realizing he’d closed them. The girl’s body is blurred out now, as horrified anchors talk over the carnage. There are sirens in the distance. He feels himself go impossibly still, his hands clenched around the TV remote.  

Before he can stop himself, he’s in the garage, a pair of keys in his hand. He starts the car and backs out of the garage, the tires screeching.

* * *

Superman is at the scene when he arrives.

The blue and red of his suit are shocking against the grey dust. Bruce gets as far as the crime scene tape before he is pushed back. There are emergency responders running between the piles of rubble, pulling bodies from the wrecked block.

He looks around, dazed by the noise and movement. He finds himself examining the twisted shrapnel strewn across the cobblestones. After a moment, he spots a thin trail of blood between the pieces of concrete.

“Hello?” he asks, leaning over. He pulls at a few larger chunks, tossing them away. “Is anyone there? Hello?”

There’s a soft groan as he digs through another pile, throwing a metal beam to his left. Blood covers the cobblestones underneath, pooling in between the bricks. He digs faster, urgency pounding through his veins. “ _Hello_?”

His hand hits flesh. He tugs the body out, surprised at his own strength. It is a woman, covered in blood. Her legs are torn and mangled beyond recognition.

She gasps as he pulls her out, tears streaming down her face.

“It’s going to be okay,” he says, stabilizing her against a nearby wall. “Look at me. It’s gonna be okay--no, don’t look down. Look at me. What’s your name?”

He pulls off his shirt, tearing it into strips. He ties them into two longer cords, searching for a piece of metal as his fingers knot them mindlessly. He finds two longer nails in the rubble, cleaning them off against his jeans.

He puts the first tourniquet around the remains of her left leg, tapping her shoulder. When she doesn’t respond, he shakes her roughly.

“Hey. _Hey._ What’s your name?”

“J-Jessica..” the woman says, as he tightens the tourniquet and begins twisting the nail. She lets out a horrifying groan as it constricts. It turns into a full-out scream a moment later. Bruce ties it off, reaching for the second. His hands are steady. She is still screaming.  

There are sirens behind him. He calls out, hoping they’ll hear him.

By the time he has the second tourniquet around her other leg, an ambulance finally pulls up. Two paramedics rush out with a stretcher, loading her quickly. Behind them are other emergency responders, still searching the rubble for more survivors.

 _They need better training,_ Bruce thinks to himself, _they almost missed her. She’d bleed out in three more minutes._

“Jesus,” a cop standing nearby says. Covered in dust and blood, he looks like a ghost. “Buddy, where the hell did you learn to do that?”

Bruce frowns, opening his mouth to ask what the hell he’s talking about. He pauses, gaze catching on his hands. They are soaked in blood--gloved in bright red to his elbows.

He held that woman down. He’d tied what remained of her legs tight, without even thinking. He’d been cool. Calm.

 _Procedural memory,_ he thinks, stumbling away from the bloodied rubble. _Procedural memory isn’t affected by retrograde amnesia. You_ knew _how to do that before._

Before he can unpack that revelation, Superman is suddenly _there,_ standing just across the crime tape. Their eyes meet over the short distance, freezing him in place.

There’s something familiar written across the alien’s face. The moment drags out, time slowing down to a sluggish pace.

He feels the blood between his fingers acutely, the significance of what he’d just done finally hitting him.

 _I need this,_ he thinks.

Superman flinches, looking away.

Bruce bites his tongue, tasting blood. Before the cameras can catch him, he ducks into a nearby alley, disappearing into the shadows.

* * *

At the Manor, he surveys the dried blood across his arms and chest with clinical kind of detachment. His shirt is missing, torn into pieces somewhere in downtown Gotham. There are pieces of gore between his fingers; he turns his hands over, waiting for the fear to hit him.

He sits in his bathroom and shakes as the tap runs, blistering hot water inches from his face.

After a half hour, he manages to get into the tub. He scrubs at his skin until it’s pink and shiny, watching bloodied water trail down the drain in brown swirls.

He throws away the ruined clothes as night falls, putting on a black t-shirt and sweatpants. He should be tired--exhausted, even--but nighttime feels like a beginning. He paces the bathroom over and over again, half-unnerved, half-delirious with the feeling. He can’t explain the way it rises in his chest--the need to go out, to watch, to do _something._

Dick is standing in the doorway when he finally turns around. He hadn’t made a sound. Bruce stares at him, seeing double for a moment. He blinks.

“I saw you come in,” the boy says, tilting his head. “You were covered in blood. Are you alright?”

 _It’s Saturday,_ Bruce realizes. He fumbles for a cover story and comes up blank. “I’m fine. What are you doing up?”

“It’s only nine,” Dick says, leaning against the door jamb. He smiles sweetly. “Besides, you’re up.”

“Can’t sleep.” Bruce shrugs. “I don’t know why.”

The boy smiles again. He nudges the corner of the door with his foot. That was something he’d learned early with Dick--the boy could never stay still. “What if I told you I had something we could do?”

“Yeah?” Bruce asks. “Like what?”

“It’s a surprise.” Dick turns towards the hallway, then back, lowering his voice. “Meet me in the garage in ten minutes. Grab the keys to the motorbike.”

With a wink, he’s gone, bounding down the hallway to his room. Bruce shakes his head and starts looking for some socks.

* * *

“There is absolutely no way this is safe.”

Dick climbs up the next rung of the ladder, pausing. “I’m fine. Hurry up.”

“You’re going to fall!” Bruce protests, following the boy up the ladder. The rungs are cold under his hands. The skyscraper looms underneath them, impossibly tall. He tries not to think about how high up they are. “ _Dick_!”

Dick scales the last portion, leaping onto the roof. He balances on the edge, making Bruce’s heart jump in his chest. With a bit-off curse, he climbs the last few rungs, hurrying after the boy.

The skyline draws him short. He pauses at the center of the roof, struck dumb by the beauty below him.

Dick crouches at the edge, beckoning him over.

He nearly stumbles in his haste to kneel at the edge. Beneath their feet, horns and voices drift up. He can see cars and people, moving in an impossible rhythm though the city. He shuts his eyes, breathing in. Gotham moves to a strange and familiar tempo far below, uninterrupted.

He remembers this. He remembers watching this. Remembers digging his hands into the sides of gargoyles and _waiting,_ perched in the shadows until he is needed.

 _I need this,_ he thinks, opening his eyes. He laughs into the wind, dumbfounded at how easy it is. Dick grins next to him, saying nothing. _I need this._

In between one moment and the next, he remembers.

He can’t pinpoint the exact moment. It is somewhere in the traffic below, or in the smell of the sea to his left. In the way Dick’s grin looks in the shadows, dangerous and beautiful at the same time.

And then he can’t stop laughing, can’t stop breathing in and out, until the relief burns in his eyes and in his chest. He knows this. He _remembers_ this.

“Bruce.”

He looks up. Superman is floating in front of them, a half-foot above the edge. Bruce smiles at his friend, recomitting him to memory.

“Clark.”

The reporter’s face twists. He sets down on the roof. Before Bruce can protest, he’s tugged up into a fierce hug.

Clark’s hands dig into his back, close to crushing him.

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” he says, into Bruce’s sweater. “Next time I see Zsasz, I’m going to--going to--”

Bruce cuts him off, shushing him as the reporter’s voice nearly breaks. He pats Clark’s back, his throat burning. After a long moment, they separate. The other man wipes his eyes, ducking his head.

“Dick?”

The boy grins, stepping forward. Bruce pulls Dick up into his arms like he hadn’t since he was smaller, lifting him off the ground. The boy shrieks, delighted.

Clark is still sniffling when he sets Dick down, watching them with a watery smile. Bruce quirks a brow, turning north.

“Any chance we could get a ride home?”

A heartbeat later, and they’re standing in the foyer of the Manor. Alfred steps into the room a moment later, drawn by the noise. There is a feather duster in his hands, forgotten.

“Come with me,” Bruce says, grabbing the butler’s arm and leading him to the door. He smiles at Clark and Dick. “I’ll be right back.”

“Master Wayne--”

Bruce takes them to the grandfather clock. He drops Alfred’s arm, reaching for the clock face. With a smile, he moves the hands to 10:47.

The wall clicks, swinging outwards. A stairwell sits behind the door, shadowed.

When he turns back to Alfred, there are tears in the butler’s eyes. He opens his mouth to say something when the butler grabs him, hauling him into another hug.

The clock door shuts after fifteen seconds, the hands spinning back into place. Alfred finally lets him go, wiping his eyes discreetly.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting some supper, then.” the butler says, his voice trembling. “Before you go out for patrol tonight.”

Bruce smiles again, delighting at the way the memories come easily to him now. In the foyer, he can hear Dick and Clark laughing.

“Only if you’re making lemon chicken. We haven’t had it for weeks.” he says. Alfred laughs, and it’s almost a sob.

“Go play with your son.” is all the butler says, disappearing into the kitchen a moment later. Bruce hears another sniffle, muffled by the door. “--have to find _lemons_ somewhere, dear _lord--_ ”

He smiles to himself and shuts the clock face. With one last breath, he drops his hands, heading for the foyer. 

 

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Leave me a comment, and let me know what you thought!


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